


Shadow of the Thunderbird

by LadyRazorsharp



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefighters, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRazorsharp/pseuds/LadyRazorsharp
Summary: Thunderbird Shadow is struck by lightning in the middle of a rescue, sending Kayo into a parallel universe where the Tracys are still in the rescue business...just not the one she knows.





	1. Chapter 1

One: Flash Before My Eyes

 

Like most pilots, Kayo is not overly fond of flying in storms, but it can’t be helped tonight.  Hurricane Miles is just another installment of an already busy season, and International Rescue is on the job.

Another bolt hits the lightning rod on Thunderbird Shadow’s nose cone, and all Kayo can do is hang on as the craft pitches like a fractious horse.  Somewhere below her, Virgil and Gordon are in the wheelhouse of the damaged shipping barge, trying to rescue the crew as white foam crashes over the stacked containers and slides off the deck.

“Wind speed is at ninety miles per hour,” Scott says in her ear from his post on the island. “Kayo, be ready to slave Thunderbird Two to your control if necessary.”

“FAB,” she replies, peering at the hulking green craft as it hovers in a crater made by the white-hot VTOL jets. “So far she looks okay.”

“Bet you wish you were having as much fun as we are, Scotty,” Gordon snarks, his mic picking up the crew’s anxious chatter in the background. “Too bad Larry gave you a bump on the head.”

“Focus, Gordon,” Scott retorts, but the admonition lacks its usual edge. Everyone on the comm knows that Scott would trade places with them in a heartbeat, instead of recovering from a concussion gained during Tropical Storm Lawrence a week earlier.

If John heard the fond exchange, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Virgil, Gordon: The barge is breaking up. The hull’s cracked and it’s taking on water. Alan: Check your monitor. Do you see any evidence of a fire?”

The youngest, training with John for the month on Thunderbird Five, pipes up from his terminal across the commsphere from his older brother.  “Negative, although with so much metal around, that can change any second. Tell the crew it’s time to go, Virgil.”

“FAB, Al,” Virgil replies, his voice tight. “John, you speak Chinese, right?”

“Not enough for this,” John replies. “Kayo, you’re up.”

“It’s been a while,” Kayo admits, “but I’ll do my best. Virgil: Put your comm on speaker. I need the exact words that you want me to tell them.”

“Tell them that the ship is going to sink,” cuts in Gordon. “We’re going to get them out, but they need to follow us.”

Kayo repeats the phrases in Mandarin, then in Cantonese. She winces; her arms are beginning to cramp, and she’s worried about her fuel readout.  Finally, a transmission crackles in her ear from Virgil.

“Everyone’s moving toward the exit in an orderly fashion,” he quips. “Thanks, Kay.”

“Anytime.” She smiles. “I’m still standing by in case I need to control Thunderbird Two.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Shadow,” says John. “You’re--”

John’s voice breaks off abruptly as a massive bolt of electricity strikes the covert plane’s tail, and one of Kayo’s hands leaves the joystick for just a moment to shield her face as her control panel sparks.  Gritting her teeth, she forces down the knee-jerk reaction and reaches out with half-gloved fingers to flip switches in order to prepare for the descent.

TBS is supposed to, like all planes, be shielded from lightning discharges. It’s possible that like its mistress, there’s some part of Shadow that’s just the smallest bit exposed.  It’s the only plausible explanation for what happens next, because the moment Kayo touches the switch, electricity short-circuits her own nervous system.

Darkness descends, and Kayo feels herself slipping into the blackness, unable to respond to the panicked voices of her brothers.


	2. On the Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familiar faces, but in an unfamiliar setting.

Two: The Other Side

Sunlight wakes Kayo, falling gently on her eyelids and caressing her skin with delicious warmth. In response, she snuggles into the soft surface under her body with a sigh of contentment. It’s a perfect morning to stay in bed, with rain falling outside--

Wait, sunlight and rain? She listens more closely, wading through the fog of sleep, and the rain becomes the noise of a shower.

She opens her eyes and sees a white ceiling fan turning lazily above her, throwing shadows in the early morning light filtering through the curtains.  Her brow creases; when did she get a ceiling fan? The light is wrong too, and she can’t smell the ocean.

Someone sneezes nearby, and instantly she’s up and on her feet, every nerve twanging. “Who’s there?” she calls, but no one answers. Instead, someone begins to whistle over the noise of the rushing water. No one approaches, and she allows herself to take a calming breath.  _ Focus _ , she tells herself.  _ Get more info _ .

Now that she’s upright, she can see that she’s in a bedroom, and up until a few seconds ago, she had been laying on a wide bed made up with comfortable white and grey linens. Simple black nightstands flank the bed; they both hold lamps with clear ginger-jar bases and white shades, but the chest nearest her is also littered with objects someone would remove from their pockets before going to bed: A ball point pen, sixty-five cents in loose change, a set of keys. The opposite nightstand bears a squat glass containing a few fingers-worth of water and a battered copy of  _ Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. _ Directly across from the bed sits a matching dresser and mirror, in which she can see herself reflected, hair mussed out of its ponytail from sleep. She is clad in a white tank top and a pair of red knit pajama pants printed with dalmatian dogs, but she doesn’t recall getting dressed for bed.  

Her senses still on high alert, Kayo moves to examine the objects on the dresser: A trinket bowl filled with vanilla-scented potpourri; a few stray ponytail holders and hairbrush; a rosary with teal-green glass beads nestled in a velvet box. On the left side there is a cell phone in a silver-grey rubber sleeve, laying on a charging pad.  An ancient movie ticket is stuck into the space between the mirror and the frame, as well as an old-fashioned black-and-white photo booth strip of herself and a sweet-faced girl with pigtails. She cocks her head at this, feeling strange at the sight of herself making funny faces at the camera, copied by the child at her side. The last photo in the sequence is of her with her arms around the child, pure hero worship in the girl’s face as she looks up at Kayo.

She wants to linger on the pictures, to puzzle out their meaning, but there are other things that demand her attention. A white porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary sits near the middle of the dresser, the face kindly and peaceful under the frozen folds of her wimple and the golden wire halo. On the right side rests another cell phone, this one sleeved in teal green. It’s plugged in, so she unplugs it and thumbs it to life.   _ Tuesday, May 21st, 2062. 6:03 am. _ Three voice messages, a text, and a notification that a calendar item is coming up soon:  _ Take test. Thursday, May 23rd _ . She thumbs the text open, and it’s just a smiley face, sent twelve hours ago by Alan.  She wants to roll over the conversation recorded there, but then something else on the dresser catches her eye: A silver-framed photograph.  Putting down the phone, Kayo picks up the frame and holds it in her hand, not quite believing the evidence of her eyes.

The photo is of her on her wedding day. She is wearing a mermaid-style strapless white dress, filmy veil tucked underneath an elaborate upswept hairstyle, a bouquet of stargazer lilies in her hand.  Her eyes are alight and her smile is wide and genuine; the photographer must have caught her about to laugh. Next to her, with his arm around her waist is her groom, handsome in a smartly cut tuxedo, his face also alight with joy. His eyes are only for her.

It’s Scott.

The shock of this familiar-yet-not-familiar face makes her nearly drop the photo, but instead she replaces it gently and lets her gaze wander around the room.  There’s a door opposite the one she assumes is the bathroom, and she opens it. Inside are clothes-hers on one side, his on the other, their shoes and accessories lined up neatly. It’s clear they’ve lived here for some long time, and she reaches out to touch one of her garments.  She stops and the breath catches in her chest as a gleam of gold flashes in her field of vision. She is wearing a band of plain yellow gold on her left ring finger, and she works it off to tilt the inside to the light. Sure enough, there is an inscription:  _ S & K 26/06/60 _ .

The shower stops, and there’s a rattle of a glass door, followed by a few thumps and muttered words from a male throat.  Her heart pounding in her ears, Kayo pushes open the door to find Scott standing in front of the sink, wrapped in a towel from the waist down and a toothbrush in his hand.  He sees her and spits, then turns to fix her with a smile. “Hey, beautiful,” he quips, a glob of pale green foam decorating his chin. “Shower’s all yours.”

Later, she will blame her still-spiraling thoughts for what comes out of her mouth next: “What are you doing here?”

Scott wipes his chin on a hand towel and turns to face her, alarm written in his sky-blue eyes. “Getting ready for work,” he says mildly, as if he’s speaking to a frightened child. “How’s your head?”

Kayo’s hand flies to her forehead, and to her surprise, a sharp, hot pain lances through the skin and muscle above her right eye. She hadn’t seen it earlier, but now as she steps into the steamy bathroom to wipe a spot clear on the mirror, she can see a two-inch reddish-purple lump above her eyebrow.  Another prod makes her hiss and flinch, and Scott’s hands gently remove her fingers from the tender spot.

“You hit it pretty good yesterday,” he continues, still in that mild voice she’s heard him use on countless rescues. “The doctor said you might be a little shaky today.”

Kayo frowns, and her forehead twinges at the pulling of angry skin and muscles. “I don’t understand.” It’s like a huge chunk of herself is missing. Everything tells her that she should be trying to flee, to defend herself, to find a way out--but the actions won’t come.

Beside her, Scott--or, someone who _ looks  _ like him, anyway--is visibly becoming more and more concerned as the seconds tick by. “He told us you might not remember,” he says, frowning. “You tripped on a hose and took a header into a curb. We found you out cold on the sidewalk.”

Kayo squeezes her eyes shut, trying to recall the last thing she remembers before waking up. “Lightning, there was a lightning storm.” She opens her eyes and turns to Scott, watching the frown line deepen between his brows. “We were on a rescue. I got caught in a lightning storm, and--” She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I can’t remember after that.”

Scott shakes his head. “I think you were dreaming, Kay. There hasn’t been a thunderstorm around here for months.”  He brings her in for a hug, and if he’s aware of how she stiffens, he doesn’t let go. “I’m sorry you had a rough night. You’re off for the next week, so just take it easy, okay?”

Despite the alarms sounding in her of  _ this is wrong  _ and  _ hoax  _ and  _ elaborate ruse,  _ Scott’s arms feel good around her, and for a moment, Kayo is fine with just being held. The pain in her head is beginning to assert itself, and the dozens of questions buzzing in her brain aren’t making it any better.  “Okay,” she agrees, keeping her voice as mild as Scott’s. She needs answers, and if her behavior can be attributed to recovering from a head injury, so much the better for her purposes.

After a moment, she pushes away from him and fixes him with a smile that she doesn’t feel. “I’m gonna get cleaned up.”

He returns her smile, relief evident in his handsome face. “Good idea.” He kisses the unblemished part of her forehead. “I’ll stick around while you’re in the bathroom.”  He turns back to the mirror and gets out his razor, and it hits Kayo like a ton of bricks:  _ We’re married _ . Well, she’s been nearly naked in front of the guys on one mission or another when she’s had to make a quick change, so she gives a mental shrug and strips. The water is good and hot, but she resists the urge to linger, scrubbing and rinsing in record time. Scott slides the door open and hands her a towel, his eyes lingering on her lithe form.

“I think we can spare a few minutes, if you’re up to it,” he purrs, with a backward glance at the door. “How about it?”

The question is so incongruous coming from _his_ mouth that she can’t help a splutter of laughter. “What?” Then she recalls herself: _Bizarro World. Need more info._ _Don’t arouse suspicion._ “I get clonked in the head and that’s the first thing you think of?” She throws the towel at him. “Down, boy.”

Scott gives her a mock-pout, flashing his twin dimples. “So I think my wife is hot. So sue me.” He grabs her when she would have flashed past, and pulls her into a kiss that despite everything, lights a slow burn in Kayo’s belly. The last time she kissed-- _ remembers _ kissing Scott--was when she was sixteen. He was her first kiss, she remembers that. He feels just as good as he did back then. Better, even. If someone is playing tricks on her, she muses, it could be worse.  

When they break apart, she’s almost wishing she’d taken him up on his offer. “Lemme get dressed-- _ yes, let me get dressed _ \--and I’ll be out in just a few.”

The words seem to be enough to reassure him, because he gives her one last peck on the lips and exits the bathroom.  She closes the door behind him and sinks down on the lid of the toilet, elbows on knees and rests the left side of her forehead in her left hand.  The thoughts come unbidden, rushing into her brain in a torrent of suspicion. Drugged? Brainwashed? What could possibly be worth all of this?

She knows the answer to this, would know it no matter how scrambled her brains might be. There are _ five  _ somethings. Five very powerful somethings, along with the men who pilot them, and then the billions of dollars and the corporation behind those men.

She’s built her life around suspicion. It’s her job to think of things that are out of place, to spot inconsistencies that signal danger. Everything here is too perfect, and she’s only been awake fifteen minutes.  In the end, she decides that she has little choice but to gather more information, and that means going downstairs and facing whatever’s there.

Scott is gone by the time she pokes her head out of the bathroom, and she crosses the room toward the closet. As she passes the dresser, the trio of photos catch her eye again, and she stops to study the two faces closely. Her own face is open, relaxed, at ease. The little girl…

Kayo’s heart gives a thump when she realizes that the little girl’s face is familiar--or, rather,  _ her features _ are familiar. High cheekbones. Light eyes. If the photo were in color, somehow Kayo knows that the twin tails of hair would be bright red-gold and the eyes would be sea-green.  John’s features. John’s colors.  _ John’s face _ on this little girl, and the girl is looking at her with love and admiration, like the gaze of a niece at a beloved aunt.

Kayo stuffs the photos back into the mirror and goes to find something to wear.


	3. Meet the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast comes with a heaping helping of startling revelations...

Warily, Kayo makes her way down the stairs, all her senses on alert. She realizes that if waking up to find herself the bride-- _bride!_ \--of Scott Tracy was a shock, she’d best be prepared for a whole slew of them.  Sure enough, her next one comes the moment she enters the deserted living room: The portraits of all of her brothers are hung on the wall just as they are on Tracy Island, but the faces are the only similarity with the ones she knows. Each of the boys is dressed in blue here, too, but in button-down uniform shirts with golden shields pinned on their left breast pockets. One difference in the portraits is Virgil, who wears a black shirt and a white priest’s collar under his uniform, and his badge bears a white chaplain’s cross. Her portrait is here, too, and she stares at her own face for a long moment, wondering if somewhere, this woman is staring at her own face in bewilderment.

 With her brain still reeling from this thought, it nearly founders under what she sees next. On the wall next to the boys’ portraits is a stunning life-size photograph of a man in full firefighting gear. The soot-smudged face under the scarred helmet is that of Jeff Tracy, and a small brass plate next to the photo bears an inscription:

_“Never give up at any cost”_

_We Love You Dad_

_Jefferson Tracy_

_January 2, 2009-September 30, 2061_

 Kayo sags against the wall, tears blurring her vision and her ears roaring. Her throat closes up, and she brings a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. He _can’t_ be dead, he _just can’t_ , and yet here is the proof, right beneath her quivering fingertips.

 “Kayo?”

 She whirls at the familiar voice, coming face to face with none other than their resident chaplain, who is eyeing her with alarm. “You all right?” He peers at the bruised lump. “How’s the head?”

 “It still hurts,” she admits, her voice sounding completely unfamiliar to her ears. “I’m managing, though.”

 He nods. “Good to hear. You gave us all a scare.” He glances up at the portrait of his father. “You know, I still expect him to walk through the door and hang up his gear.” He sighs. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

 She doesn’t trust herself to speak, but turns and buries her face in his chest. His arms immediately go around her, strong and safe, and for the first time since she woke up, she relaxes just a little. They stand together for a few heartbeats, and Kayo lets herself be held, drawing strength from him. He might be wearing different clothes, but he is still Virgil, and she makes up her mind to hang on to that until she has some answers.

 “I know,” he murmurs in her hair. “Just when I think I’m over it, something brings it up and I’m choked up all over again.”  He hugs her hard, then ducks to look her in the face, a smile playing about his lips. “Although I’m not surprised that you’re all emotional right now.”

 She frowns up at him. “What do you--”

 Footsteps thumping in the hallway interrupt her train of thought. “Hey, V, your breakfast’s getting cold,” says another voice, and Kayo turns to see Gordon standing in the doorway. He too is the same, except he wears the blue shirt and navy trousers like Virgil, sans the priestly collar, and his badge bears an anchor instead of a cross. “Mornin’ sis,” he quips. “How’s the head?”

 “I’ll live,” she volleys back. Her stomach growls, and she pushes past him toward the smell of food. “Did I hear something about breakfast?” She breezes past Gordon, pretending not to notice the question in the depths of his amber eyes. She doesn’t think she can withstand an examination--especially now that she’s aware that her insides feel as empty as a clean bowl.

 “Uh, yeah,” says Gordon, following a few steps behind. “Although you’ll be glad to know that I didn’t make it.”

 Kayo follows her nose into the warm kitchen, but she stops short at the sight of John sitting at one end of a long farmhouse table, scrolling through screens on his tablet. “That’s good,” the redhead snorts. “Means we can actually eat it.”

 " _Dad,”_ chides a feminine voice, and with a start, Kayo realizes the words have come from a young girl in a Catholic school uniform, who had been standing at the stove behind them. She carefully maneuvers her way past the adults, her turquoise eyes fastened on her steaming bowl of oatmeal. “Good morning, Auntie Kay, Uncle Virgil.” The girl’s copper pigtails gleam in the light pouring through the kitchen window, and she hikes herself up on the chair at the end of the table nearest the sink. “Uncle Gordon’s breakfast isn’t _that_ bad.”

 “‘Rorie’s right; I saw him pour her a bowl of Fruity O’s one time,” says a chipper voice as Alan enters from a door set into the wall opposite the stove. “Although the toast was a different story. ‘Morning, Kayo. How’s the head?”

 Despite the utter strangeness of the situation, Kayo can’t help but roll her eyes at the fourth instance of that question. “It’s still on my shoulders.” _I think,_ she added silently, watching as Alan--dressed in the same uniform as the rest of the boys--tugs gently at one of the girl’s pigtails before settling to his own steaming bowl at John’s right hand.

 Kayo is studying the cupboards intently, wondering where she might find a bowl and a mug, until Gordon grabs two bowls from a cupboard and hands her one. Behind her, liquid gurgles and spoons clink against crockery. “Raisins, please,” says Alan.

 “I’ll trade you for the brown sugar,” says Virgil. “Aurora, hon, you want syrup or sugar?”

 “Hmmm, syrup, please.”

 The syrup jug thumps on the table, then Virgil’s voice again: “Johnny, you all good?”

 “Are there any more pecans--ah, thanks.”

 “Hey, save some for me,” purrs a voice in Kayo’s ear, and she nearly splatters the front of her tee shirt with a bowlful of oaty napalm as Scott’s arm catches her around the waist. “Whoops, easy there.” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard and dips himself out a serving, then takes her bowl from her. “Go ahead and sit down; I’ve got this.”

 There are only two places left, one at the head of the table and one at Gordon’s left hand, so she sits next to Gordon while Scott moves to the seat nearest the door. Across from her, Virgil waits until Scott is seated, then rises to his feet. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he intones, and Kayo is just a half a beat behind the rest of the family as they make the Sign of the Cross.

 “Amen,” she repeats with everyone, then lowers her eyes to the oatmeal in her bowl.

 “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, for which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Amen.”

 They repeat the Sign of the Cross, and Kayo is pleased to note that this time, her gesture and ‘amen’ are in perfect unison. Virgil sits, dragging the bowl of raisins and the jar of brown sugar within easy reach of both of them.

 “Where’s Grandma?” Gordon asks, pouring himself a glass of orange juice from a carafe in the center of the table.

 “She has a thing to go to,” John supplied, sprinkling chopped nuts in his bowl. “She said Kip was coming by and they were going to meet their cronies for breakfast before the...whatever it is.”

  _“Kip Harris?”_ The question splutters out of Kayo before she can stop it, and six pairs of eyes fasten on her. “Yes of course, Kip.” She puts a hand to the bump on her head, but doesn’t have to fake a wince. “Sorry. Guess my bell hasn’t stopped ringing yet.”

 As if the word ‘bell’ is a cue, the klaxon begins to sound in the station, and the five brothers shovel a few more spoonfuls of oatmeal down their throats before four of them push back from the table. John alone stays behind, but even he is moving, getting to his feet with a slight wobble that makes Kayo’s brows draw together. He drops a kiss on forehead of the girl-- _Aurora,_ Virgil called her--and limps to the brass pole set in the corner. “Have a good day at school,” he calls, and swirls downward out of sight.

 “‘Bye Dad,” she calls after him, then shoots a glance over her shoulder to make sure he’s out of sight. With a wicked grin, she grabs his tablet and taps at it with deft fingers.  Soon, she is giggling at something on the screen, swinging her legs in their knee socks and Mary Janes. “Are you taking me to school, Auntie Kay?”

 “Finish your breakfast,” Kayo says automatically. “I’m off today, so I could do that.”

 “Dad said you hit your head.” She spoons raisin-studded slurry into her mouth. “Looks nasty.”

 The girl’s accent is not quite Britain and not quite America, but before Kayo can puzzle it out, the powerful rumble of a diesel engine shakes the house from below, and Aurora jumps up from the table. “Hurry!” she calls, fleeing the kitchen.  

 Kayo follows, and they stop at the windows of the front room. As they watch, a bright red engine, marked with a white _3_ on its top and sides, is pulling out into the street with Alan at the wheel. The red and blue lights flash bright even in the morning sun, and the chrome fittings and reflective golden decals gleam. Kayo blinks; for a moment, she is on Tracy Island as Thunderbird Three rockets away from the Roundhouse and Thunderbird One rises from the pool. Then the siren splits the air, and she is back in the firehouse, watching the LEDs on the back of the truck flicker and dance.

 “It’s so pretty,” Aurora gushes. “I can’t wait until I can drive it!”

 Kayo smiles at her. “You want to be a firefighter too?”

 The girl wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Auntie, you’re teasing me! You know I want to be an astronaut.”  She climbs down from the sofa, straightening her blue and grey plaid pinafore. “But Uncle Alan said he’d teach me how to drive the fire engine--when I’m old enough.”


End file.
